Falling In The Background
by FlygonRider
Summary: Things can change in an instant, and when they do, we are often left stunned and defenseless in a world of surreal. However, they may be just what we need to spread our wings and fly. Reposted for 9/11 from Something Close to Superman. Character death.


_Title: Something Close to Superman_

_By:FlygonRider_

_Summery:Things can change in an instant, and when they do, we are often left stunned and defenseless in a world of surreal. However, they may be just what we need to spread our wings and fly. Reposted for 9/11. Character death._

_Inspired by: Superman (It's Not Easy) by Five For Fighting_

* * *

_Something Close to Superman_

I remember a lot about 9/11. I remember the world conference. I remember the shock of the plane hitting our Tower (it was the South one, for those of you who care). I remember the perfect blue was marred by black smoke. I remember grabbing somebody's hand. I remember running out of the skyscraper, Alfred screaming out "Mattie come back!" and right before he vanished in the crowd "I love you!"

After we reached the lobby, I dimly remember having to stop, desperate to catch my breath, leaning up against a wall. The hand I was gripping kept tugging, over and over, until I waved the hand's concerns off. The firefighters stood in the middle of the lobby, heads spinning as they tried to figure out what was going on.

That's when I heard the glass.

It was loud and sharp, something that stood out in my memory. It made me pause, think for a moment. The person next to me stopped also, perhaps letting the cogs in their mind turn. I figured it was probably broken windows falling to the sidewalk from something, a bomb maybe? Likely. The same thing had happened back in 1993 after the explosion, the one Alfred kept telling me about for weeks afterward.

It wasn't until later I realized the windows were bodies.

When we ran out of the Tower, I heard somebody crying out in Italian, and I realized it was Lovino who I had pulled along with me. Minutes later, the South one came down. The one still beside it was pouring out smoke, almost like an SOS. It made my stomach do flips; it seemed to be an omen of things to come. I could feel it; something was amiss, and not just the fact that one of the world's major economic workhorses had just been reduced to a pile of rubble with it's sibling about to join it.

Soon the North Twin fell, almost looking like it imploded on itself. I closed my eyes against the screams and felt Lovino pull me around yelling for his brother, first in English, then a little bit of German (which I knew he hated), and finally in Italian. _Frattello, frattello, where are you?_

We became a fragmented group; some of us went to clear away rubble, others wondered off to try and find all of us a new hotel (we were all staying at the Marriott World Trade Center, you see), Austria was crying into Hungary's shoulder, and a few where just sitting and staring at the road. I remember smelling, not death, but smoke and twisted concrete and tears. Yes, tears have a smell. At least to me anyway.

Later in the afternoon, the 7 World Trade Center building next to the ruins of the Twin Towers collapsed. I wanted to laugh at the fact that it was red (like the color of blood), and I did. Lovino gave me a 'what-the-hell' look, then went back to his searching. I was mildly surprised that he had kept dragging me around with him this entire time.

It was approaching dusk, and the eastern edge of the sky was turning a rich indigo. Lovino sat down on a piece of metal, crossing his arms over his chest. My lungs heaved, throat burning as my body tried to get rid of the smoke. The sun was a demonic crimson, set aflame by the ash. Soon it was almost gone, and spotlights were set up. No point in having the rescuers becoming those in need of rescue.

Something reached my ears, something in Italian. I stood up, and Lovino did the same. Out of the debris came Feliciano, covered in white dust and looking like one of the ghosts in Alfred's horror films; the kind that made him refuse to come out of his room for days on end. As soon as the two brothers got close enough, they fell into each other's arms, sobbing like tiny children. My heart ached with joy at seeing such a golden, happy moment in this _carnage_. But after several minutes, I finally got the question out that had been on my mind.

"Feliciano, where's Alfred?" The Italian nation immediately broke away from his brother and stared at me with deep, dark, sad eyes.

"He finally became a hero, Canada," He let out in a strangled sigh. "He's not coming back, Mattie."

He's not coming back.

He's not coming back.

_He's not coming back._

I remember stumbling away from them afterwards, those words a cloudy haze thick in my mind, almost like the fog that I got when me and Alfred got high together during the 60's. Almost. Woodstock was especially fun. A few people tried to come up and tried to comfort me, but I just kept walking past them. Words were nothing more than annoying flies buzzing in my ears.

After wandering for what felt like lifetimes—somebody told me later it was only about 15 minutes—I saw France holding England as they stood in the middle of the road. I raised my arm to get their attention, but it almost wouldn't go up. That was one of the things me and my brother found out when we smoked pot. I would always get lethargic, and he would constantly dissolve in fits of giggles. But that isn't the point.

Francis saw me and widened his eyes, which caught Arthur's attention. England turned around and saw me, getting the biggest smile on his face that I'd ever seen, and yelled out at the top of his voice,

"America!"

Time stopped. I halted several feet away from them, felt my mouth open a little bit, and I could tell I was getting the same expression Italy got when he told me Alfred was dead. I remember Arthur still had that smile, but then something crept up behind it, a straining impatience, an almost _'what's happened? What's wrong?'_ where you want to know and also don't. I forced myself to take in a breath and whispered,

"_I'm Canada_."

It was so quiet, even I had a hard time hearing it. Arthur's smile completely shattered, and the tears started going again. I was still out of it, so I put a hand on his shoulder, and stared at him as he pushed it away.

"Come on Alfred, stop joking. I'm sorry I yelled at you, okay? Stop fooling around. It's not funny anymore," Arthur whimpered.

"God fucking damn I'm Canada you stupid ass! When the fucking hell are you going stop living in your damn fantasy world?! Don't you see?! America's dead and he's not coming back, when the hell is that going go through your thick skull, you goddamn retard!" England's lower lip began quivering as it took me a moment to realize what I'd just said. "Oh my God…England, I'm so-"

"No, I'm sorry Canada. I should have known it was you. Just…please, not right now," He muttered as he spun on his dusty, ash-covered shoes and ran away.

I had to sit down on the ground after that. There were tracks on my sleeves from wiping my nose and spots on my pants from tears. The fog cleared from my mind in bits and pieces, making everything too loud, too bright, a massive sensory overload that made my brain want to shut down. Francis drew me close to him, and I breathed in the faint scent of cologne. I remember the yellow handkerchief in the pocket of his suit was wrinkled a little bit. Amazing what you can remember when the world's falling apart.

I remember France took his coat and tried to put it around my shoulders, but instead I refused and began helping others clear away rubble. My clothes became torn and dirty and ruined (there went 2000 dollars down the drain), but I didn't care.

All that mattered was finding Alfred.

I remember working through the night and into the early hours of the next morning. When somebody tried to pull me away, I thrashed and screamed, "We have to find Alfred! I have to find him!"

No, I didn't believe he was somehow alive under the tons of concrete and glass and steel. I wasn't that stupid. I just wanted to find his body. After all, the hero deserves a proper burial, right? I'm not surprised he died. He may have called himself a superhero, but he was nothing more than a man in a funny red sheet with eyes a hell of a lot smaller than his stomach.

It took me another three days to get back home. Apparently the government had banned all flights over the US, whether it be small single-engine Cessnas or massive Boeing 747s. On the plane home, a woman leaned over and let me cry into her shirt.

Never have I ever had my faith in humanity broken and restored so many times.

* * *

Clouds hung low over New York on September 11, 2002. I swung my car into the parking lot of a McDonalds and switched the engine off.

I glanced at my watch and saw it was almost three o'clock. There weren't many people in the restaurant. A man with his boyfriend. A woman with a baby. An old woman with her grandson. The employees looked slightly bored, as though hoping some business would come through the door.

I walked up to counter and smiled at the teenager who came to help me. I always found it hilarious that it was humans who noticed me, never the Nations.

"Hello, I'd like to order a Big Mac please," I asked, straining my voice so he could hear.

"Would you like anything else?" The boy questioned.

"No thank you, that'll be all."

"Can I get your name?"

"Matthew."

As I leaned against the back counter, memories flashed through my head along with the smell of grease. Alfred showing me his first McDonalds during the beginning of World War II, a thin little barbecue joint, one of the blink-and-you-miss-it kind of place that dotted the roads back then. Him taking me back a couple years after the war ended to show how it had grown into a thin little hamburger stand, able to stay afloat only with the efforts of returning GIs. Us two eating there in the 50's, wiping mayo and ketchup off each other's chins.

"Matthew?" Somebody called out. I got my hamburger, still warm in its wrapper, and left. As I drove down through the skyscraper jungle, I could feel my throat begin to close up as I got closer to where the Twin Towers once stood. The skyline looked so desolate without them.

Finding a parking space, I stepped out and grabbed the Big Mac from the passenger seat and strolled over to the massive hole that once was the foundation of the World Trade Center. Standing close to it, I looked around and saw some of the people that had come to pay their respects. Taking the hamburger out of my pocket, I laid it on the sidewalk and stared at the colorful wrapping before putting a hand up to my eyes. When I pulled it away, my fingers were wet. Tears leaked out of their own accord, and I did nothing to stop them. Let the people stare and think that I was I a sissy. My brother was dead, so what did I care?

All of a sudden, I felt small arms wrap around my thighs and a Hispanic boy, no more than four or five, looked up at me. My heart began pounding, worries going through the back of my head that someone might think I was trying to kidnap him.

Then his eyes caught mine, and I was swept up by a wave of understanding, of loving, of _'I know how you feel'_. The child stared deep into me and said somberly,

"It's okay Mister. I lost my mom."

I sat down on the sidewalk and pulled him into me as I let salty water drip down my chin. The boy squeezed me, and I squeezed back, emotions tumbling up and down and left and right through me like some kind of agile, hyperactive bird.

"Who's that for?" The boy asked, pointing at the Big Mac. I gave a small tired smile.

"It's for my…brother. He's down there somewhere. But I have a feeling he wouldn't want to be anywhere else," I explained; my voice slow and gentle like a mothers. "Did you know my brother saved a lot of people? He made sure all of them got out, even the grandmas and the grandpas." My listener's eyes widened.

"Wow! He sounds like a superhero! You know, like Superman or Captain America?"

"That's actually what he wanted to be when he grew up. He kept telling me 'I'm going be Superman!' as he ran around the house wearing a red towel." For those of you wondering, yes, during the Depression, he'd cheer himself up by pretending to be Superman. Red towel and everything.

A man came over and the boy separated from me, running into his father's arms and crying "Dad!"Thank God. I don't think my heart could take any more death.

"I'm so sorry sir," The man apologized profusely. I waved away his apology with a motion of my hand.

"No, it's not a problem. I enjoyed talking to your son," I sincerely said as I looked at him. As he walked away, I looked back down at the forlorn hamburger, then took out a thin, long red ribbon and tied it around the wrapper in a bow.

"I'll be back next year, okay Alfred? Don't go anywhere," I whispered as I walked back to my car, chuckling darkly at the harsh irony.

* * *

It was five in the morning in British Columbia on May 2, 2011 when my cell phone went off. Grabbing it off my nightstand, I held it to my ear and growled,

"What the fuck do you want, Alfred?" A voice sped across my ears, spewing French out at a million miles per hour. I wondered why America was speaking French before I realized it was France. Even after almost 10 years, it still took me a moment sometimes to remember my brother was dead. "Francis…shut up."

"I can't I can't oh my god, did you hear the news it can't be true but it is-"

"Francis!" I yelled. Silence from the other end. "Now speak slowly and in either English or French. I may be bilingual, but you know I can't hear one and talk the other right after I've woken up."

"Osama bin Laden is dead. They killed him last night," France said in English. I felt my lips pull into a diminished smile.

"Sure Francis. Just like the other million times. Go bullshit to somebody else." And I hung up on him. So many times a country called me at random to tell me that the bastard was dead, I had stopped believing them. For the first few years, I would get calls from nations who would say "They've killed bin Laden!" and my eyes would get wide and I'd whisper "Really?" but all they would do is scream "FOOLED YA'!" and laugh as they heard me cry.

I was so done with it. I was sick of being the guy that lost his brother, the one who everyone apologized to when they didn't really mean it, the freak of nature who played with God's luck. Sometimes I wished I could have died in the attacks. Not because I'm suicidal, but because then my brother could have had the spotlight 24/7 and I wouldn't have had to deal with people mistaking me for him.

I went back to sleep, only waking up when the sun hit my eyes. My cell rang again, and I held it to my ear.

"Hello?" I asked.

"Canada, did you hear the news?" The Prime Minister questioned. I squeezed the bridge of my nose.

"Yes, Mr. Harper. Osama bin Laden is 'dead' quote-un-quote. Don't tell me you're in on this joke too. April Fools Day was over a month ago." A sigh from the other end.

"I'm telling you the truth, Mr. Williams. However, since you don't believe me, just watch the news."

"Okay Mr. Harper. Whatever you say. I'll get right on it."

I did housework the rest of the day. Clean windows, vacuum, weed the garden (which I guess isn't quite in the realm of 'house'work, but I digress), dust the bookshelves, stuff like that. The television stayed off.

The Prime Minister's words ran through my head along with what I needed to pick up from the store the next day as I cooked the last of the ground beef, quietly savoring the meaty scent. I turned onto one of the national news networks and went back to pushing the food around the pan.

"Osama bin Laden is dead," The statement caught my attention, and I turned to watch the screen with intent. "In a recent development in the War on Terror, President Obama stated that last night, Osama bin Laden was killed in a raid on his compound in Afghanistan. No other information has been released."

Quickly I set the meat on a cool burner and grabbed my newspaper from the mailbox. Coming back inside, I put the meat back on and chewed each word of the front headline. It took me several minutes to process it.

Osama bin Laden was dead.

Osama bin Laden was dead.

_Osama bin Laden was dead._

Finally, the man who buried my brother was gone. The bastard had been shot. It was about time. I got my dinner finished and turned off the TV. Grabbing a jacket from it's hook, I shrugged it on and left the house. The night sky was perfectly clear, no moon to block the starlight. It was still cold this high in the mountains, and I drew the jacket closer around me. Crunching through snowdrifts, I finally reached my favorite place in the world.

It was a rather simple cliff, plunging downward for nearly 200 feet before reaching the forest below. As I stared out over the wilderness, breath plumed like small clouds in front of my face. I kicked a stone off the edge and watched it tumble into the trees at the bottom with disinterest. Taking off my jacket, I held it up towards the sky and contemplated the large white 50 painted on the back. Alfred had been so proud to finally get to 50 states. He claimed it was good luck, having an even 50. Guess it didn't help him cheat Death though.

"Hey, Alfred, did you hear the news? Bin Laden's dead," My tongue fumbled in my mouth and between my teeth as I tried to shape the next sentence. "Ya' hear that Al? We finally got the bad guy. Ya' finally got to be a hero."

And as I looked up at the infinite amount of stars that dotted the sky, I realized something. Through the ten years of pain, sorrow, tears, joy, hugs, and friendship, I had grown. I had changed. I had started stepping out of my brother's shadow.

I had finally become something close to Superman.


End file.
